against Thornhill might commit malicious mischief, but why steal his books? She wondered about reselling them, and concluded it might be very difficult. “What’s the procedure for reporting stolen books?” she asked. “There must be a way of alerting dealers.”
“There is,” Tracey replied as they walked up the driveway to the front door. “Mr. Mayer is going to tell us about it. He’s taking care of it.”
The door was answered by Grace. She said nothing, as if recent events had robbed her of the energy required for her syrupy sweetness. Charlotte and Tracey followed her into the library, a spacious room that ran the full depth of the house. Unlike the parlor, which had a feminine quality, the library was a man’s room, filled with dark wood and capacious club chairs of the kind found in grand old hotels that care more about comfort than image. Despite the brightness of the day, the atmosphere was dusky. Heavy green drapes were drawn over the windows. The books were housed in polished walnut bookshelves marked with brass plates. From the shelves hung engraved portraits of gentlemen in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century dress, presumably the authors of some of the books in the collection. One portrait—of a man in an Elizabethan ruff—had been tilted aside to reveal the rectangular vault concealed behind it. The gleaming stainless steel door stood open, exposing the empty interior.
In the center of the room stood an old English refectory table, at which Daria sat in one of four ornately carved armchairs. She rose to greet them, as did Felix, who had just hung up the telephone.
Tracey introduced himself to Daria and Felix. He then explained Charlotte’s presence: he didn’t expect that they would mind the assistance of someone who had helped solve the famous “murder at the Morosco” case.
“Not at all,” said Felix, lowering his ponderous torso into a large armchair by the fireplace. “The more heads the better. A very interesting case. There was a book written about it, was there not?”
“Yes,” replied Charlotte. “ Murder at the Morosco. ”
“A likely title,” he said with a smile. After lighting his cigar with a great deal of licking, puffing, and lip-smacking, he proceeded with his remarks: “I presume Chief Tracey has filled you in on what’s happened. At his direction, I have notified the proper authorities of the theft.”
“Who are the proper authorities?” asked Charlotte. She sat at the table in one of the ornate armchairs, facing a tile-ornamented fireplace.
“The FBI, when the loss is over five thousand dollars and when it is presumed the books have left the state. And, of course, the local law enforcement authorities,” he added, with a nod to Tracey.
Nodding in return, Tracey made some jottings in a notebook. He also sat at the table, looking distinctly out of place in a dark blue uniform shirt with his name embroidered in gold thread above the breast pocket.
“How are the dealers notified?” he asked.
“A computer bulletin board alerts dealers around the world within hours,” replied Felix. “Dealers with computers have immediate access to a list of missing books. Dealers without computers can call a special number or consult a list that is mailed out monthly.”
“It sounds like an efficient system,” said Tracey.
“Very efficient,” interjected John, who had entered and was standing by the door. “The tragedy is that it’s needed at all. Such a sophisticated system was never necessary in the past. But as rare books have become increasingly fashionable, theft has become a greater problem.”
Daria introduced him to Tracey.
“Excuse me for interrupting,” said John, crossing the room to shake Tracey’s hand. “I just wanted to offer my services. I’m sure Mr. Mayer is doing everything in his power to help, but if there’s anything I can do, please let me know. Obviously, I have an interest in seeing that the books are recovered.”
“When did
“There is,” Tracey replied as they walked up the driveway to the front door. “Mr. Mayer is going to tell us about it. He’s taking care of it.”
The door was answered by Grace. She said nothing, as if recent events had robbed her of the energy required for her syrupy sweetness. Charlotte and Tracey followed her into the library, a spacious room that ran the full depth of the house. Unlike the parlor, which had a feminine quality, the library was a man’s room, filled with dark wood and capacious club chairs of the kind found in grand old hotels that care more about comfort than image. Despite the brightness of the day, the atmosphere was dusky. Heavy green drapes were drawn over the windows. The books were housed in polished walnut bookshelves marked with brass plates. From the shelves hung engraved portraits of gentlemen in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century dress, presumably the authors of some of the books in the collection. One portrait—of a man in an Elizabethan ruff—had been tilted aside to reveal the rectangular vault concealed behind it. The gleaming stainless steel door stood open, exposing the empty interior.
In the center of the room stood an old English refectory table, at which Daria sat in one of four ornately carved armchairs. She rose to greet them, as did Felix, who had just hung up the telephone.
Tracey introduced himself to Daria and Felix. He then explained Charlotte’s presence: he didn’t expect that they would mind the assistance of someone who had helped solve the famous “murder at the Morosco” case.
“Not at all,” said Felix, lowering his ponderous torso into a large armchair by the fireplace. “The more heads the better. A very interesting case. There was a book written about it, was there not?”
“Yes,” replied Charlotte. “ Murder at the Morosco. ”
“A likely title,” he said with a smile. After lighting his cigar with a great deal of licking, puffing, and lip-smacking, he proceeded with his remarks: “I presume Chief Tracey has filled you in on what’s happened. At his direction, I have notified the proper authorities of the theft.”
“Who are the proper authorities?” asked Charlotte. She sat at the table in one of the ornate armchairs, facing a tile-ornamented fireplace.
“The FBI, when the loss is over five thousand dollars and when it is presumed the books have left the state. And, of course, the local law enforcement authorities,” he added, with a nod to Tracey.
Nodding in return, Tracey made some jottings in a notebook. He also sat at the table, looking distinctly out of place in a dark blue uniform shirt with his name embroidered in gold thread above the breast pocket.
“How are the dealers notified?” he asked.
“A computer bulletin board alerts dealers around the world within hours,” replied Felix. “Dealers with computers have immediate access to a list of missing books. Dealers without computers can call a special number or consult a list that is mailed out monthly.”
“It sounds like an efficient system,” said Tracey.
“Very efficient,” interjected John, who had entered and was standing by the door. “The tragedy is that it’s needed at all. Such a sophisticated system was never necessary in the past. But as rare books have become increasingly fashionable, theft has become a greater problem.”
Daria introduced him to Tracey.
“Excuse me for interrupting,” said John, crossing the room to shake Tracey’s hand. “I just wanted to offer my services. I’m sure Mr. Mayer is doing everything in his power to help, but if there’s anything I can do, please let me know. Obviously, I have an interest in seeing that the books are recovered.”
“When did
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